


Lovers

by mark_sways



Category: Crosses (Band), Deftones (Band), Far (Band), KoRn (Band), Palms (Band), Phallucy (Band), Team Sleep (Band)
Genre: Adultery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complicated Relationships, Contains a child who is more mature than her parents, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Gen, Scorned lovers, The men suck in this, Triggering content ahead, high school sweethearts, women for the win
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28564473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mark_sways/pseuds/mark_sways
Summary: high school slackers jezebel "belle"/"jez" damone and camilo "chino" moreno seemed destined to be together, ever since they first met in the 8th grade during a game of spin the bottle. three years later, to their parents' distaste, the pair become a couple and are inseparable.the two adjust well to college life, where partying, smoking weed, and having sex become their favorite pastimes. as jezebel goes through college to major in art history, chino spends his time making music with his band deftones, their sound most commonly described as being "funk metal".when deftones finally gain a shot at recording a full studio album under madonna's record label maverick, jezebel discovers she is pregnant with chino's child, which proves to be both a blessing in disguise and a curse in its purest form.the two twenty-year-olds try their best to make things work, ditching old habits in favor of raising their child. but as the years pass, their idea of a happy family with a white picket fence proves almost impossible when old demons begin to take over chino's life in the form of sex, drugs, and fame.
Relationships: Chino Moreno/Original Female Characters
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	1. piss stains in the tiki bar

**January, 2000**

**Present Day**

**Los Angeles, CA**

It is a little after one in the morning when Izabela Moreno wakes up in a puddle of her own urine. The five year old cracks her hazel eyes open, noticing a familiar squishing sensation in her Minnie Mouse bed sheets. She lets out a soft grunt as she sits up straight, back against the white headboard of her bed. Birdy, the family Himalayan cat, stirs at the girl's sudden scuffling, and lets out a silent yawn that bares all her teeth.

Izabela, who is addressed lovingly as "Izzie" by her parents, rubs the sleep out of her eyes with her chubby knuckles. Vibrations from her dad's cabinet speakers shake the floor, even though the sounds are coming from the basement below Izzie's bed. Obnoxious laughter, clinking glasses, and the dropping of profanities are almost just as loud as whatever record is currently spinning on the turntable. Izzie swears she can hear her mother's airy voice above the rest– the one voice that promises comfort, security…

  
  


The one voice that she does  _ not _ want to be scolded by.

  
  


Reality hits Izzie, and the preschooler begins to dread talking to Mama  _ or _ Daddy about her current dilemma. She does not wish to disrupt her parents' festivities downstairs, but she can’t  _ not  _ tell someone about her "accident"; these "accidents" have been happening more often with each passing week, and no one has an answer as to why or what is causing them. Her mother is always very patient, and never gets upset over the frequent bed-wettings. Her father has recently learned of the issue, therefore he is not aware of how to handle it. Though she knows her mother will be far from angry with her, she still feels guilty for what would be the fifth accident in the span of a week.

Despite her worries, Izzie decides to be the type of "big girl" her daddy always encourages her to be when times are tough. Birdy is fully awake at this point, hopping off the bed with a meow. Izzie rolls her featherweight frame off the mattress, and plants both feet firmly on her beige carpet. Her piss-soaked pajamas hit the cool air, and it sends a sharp chill through her body. She grimaces a little when she realizes that the hem of her thermal shirt is also wet.

Regardless, the five year old swipes her stuffed koala named Bongo off of her bed and waddles out the door. She pads her way down the hall, passing her parents’ bedroom and the guest bathroom she refuses to use. The feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin makes her itch. Her eyes begin to water; she cannot tell if it's from her current state of anxiousness... or from the smell of ammonia wafting off the wet fabric.

She slips down the flight of stairs, past the vast array of framed photographs lining the wall. Photos displaying her mother's smiling baby-blues and wild strawberry-blonde curls, as well as her father's dark features and kind eyes. They look happy, arms around each other in warm embraces. And in almost every photo, their pride and joy– their own blessing in disguise– Izabela sits between them with her black Shirley Temple ringlets and toothy grin always stretched over her round cheeks.

But one cannot be fooled, for two of the bright, wide smiles frozen in time are merely for show. Camilo and Jezebel Moreno are not happily married. All but their young daughter are well aware of this woeful fact. There was a time when they had been, but those days are drifting further away as time passes.

Izzie Moreno reaches the bottom of the steps, turning to her right and skidding her way through the downstairs hallway. She finds herself in the living room. The television is still on, screening some nighttime talk show with a host as old as time itself. Bowls of pretzels and empty bottles of beer are strewn across the coffee table, remnants of the party upstairs that occurred prior to being moved down in the basement. The dark-haired child tosses her stuffed koala bear on the loveseat, dismissing any level of personal protection he has to offer.

Izzie makes a beeline from the family room to the kitchen. A familiar, large figure lingers nearby poking his head in the refrigerator. The burly man retrieves a tray of homemade fudge sliced into precise cubes. Izzie's mother had told her earlier not to touch the delicacy, for it contained peanuts (which Izzie has a terrible allergy to) and something else she dared not to say to the five year old. Izzie had to admit, the squares even  _ smelled  _ a little funny.

The large man sends a smile in the young girl's direction. "Hey, shawty! What're  _ you  _ still doin' up?" The man, her father's best friend called Stephen, greets jubilantly. His eyes are glassy, and the goofy smile on his face stretches from ear-to-ear. Izzie does not reciprocate the positivity.

"Stef, where is Daddy?" She croaks, her meek voice sleepy and hoarse. She rubs one of her eyes with a closed fist as a yawn escapes her mouth. Stephen Carpenter balances the tray of grown-up goodies in his hand, using the free one to pick his beer can off of the island. He takes a long chug before giving the child an answer, happy to oblige. He does not seem to notice that the child's clothes are wet with urine, but Izzie is thankful for his ignorance.

"He's downstairs hangin' on your mama. C'mon, I'll take ya down there, homegirl," Stephen jerks his chin to gesture the direction he's headed. Izzie gazes down at her bare feet, then back up at Stephen. She gives him a small nod in response.

The pair start to make their way to the basement, Izzie following her father's bandmate close behind. Approaching the door to the lowest level, Izzie notes the sudden drop in volume music-wise, pulsating bass now replaced with mellow acoustic tones. Stephen struggles to steady the plastic tray of fudge as he hops down the steps, but manages to not drop any squares. The guitarist stops at the bottom of the stairs to notify the partygoers, "I got the goodies!"

Izzie almost snarls in aggravation, as she weaves around him to finally enter the room. 

The sea of adults congregating in the Morenos' basement lounge— known as "The Tiki Bar" due to its tacky Hawaiian decor and endless flow of alcohol— squeal in delight upon Stephen's delivery. That Harry Nilsson song about curing a belly ache is playing softly in the background. The young girl slithers her way through the bodies scattered through the room. She gazes up at the people gathered there to do nothing but sip "big-people drinks". Few faces look familiar to Izabela, only some can she point out by name.

She sees her mother's friend, a redhead the preschooler calls "Kimmy". Kimmy is in the corner by the pool table, preoccupied with some guy that is making her cackle like the hyenas Izzie once saw at the San Diego Zoo. Abe and Annalynn Cunningham, who Izzie considers her aunt and uncle, are sitting on the leather couch, gabbing away with foreign merrymakers. 

Izzie begins to feel a lead ball of dread settle in her belly. Out of all these people, she cannot seem to pinpoint where her parents are. They couldn't have left; this was  _ their  _ party, after all… right?

Just as she begins to consider an alternative, she hears a male voice say her father's name over the music. Izzie's ears prick up, similar to Birdy's when her mother offers the feline a can of wet food. Izzie turns her head to the right to spot her father's friend Chi Cheng standing near a hunched figure at the bar. A sense of relief washes over the young girl as she makes her way to the two men, her pajamas squelching.

Stephen was wrong, however; her mother is nowhere in sight, nowhere  _ near  _ her father.

Chi Cheng has vanished into thin air by the time she reaches the man who is sulking on a barstool. One elbow is propped up on the table whilst his forehead rests against his palm. His black hair shields his tired eyes from his daughter's view. His mouth is a thin dashed line, his cheeks seem hollowed and gaunt. Sitting all by his lonesome while the rest of the crowd seems to be having the time of their lives.

He doesn't even look like himself.

"Daddy," Izabela murmurs, placing both of her little starfish hands on his left knee. She gives his leg a light shake. This causes Camilo Moreno to raise his head and brush loose strands of hair away from his face. His eyes are rimmed-red and bloodshot, his pupils so large his irises have disappeared. He scrubs a hand down the side of his face, scratching a stubbled cheek.

"... w-what are you doin' up, baby girl? It's late," he inquires as he swipes his glass of what looks like water off the bar to take a drink. He throws his head back, gagging slightly as the liquid runs down his throat. Izzie curls her lip slightly; she didn't think water tasted  _ that  _ bad.

The girl offers an explanation: "Daddy, I need help."

"What'sa matter, baby?" Her father slurs, raising a thick eyebrow in her direction. He sets his now-empty glass back down. Camilo reaches out, sweeping a few corkscrew curls away from his daughter's face.

Her gaze falls to the floor as she admits her fault under her breath, so low that barely any sound escapes her lips. Camilo does not react, however. Instead he turns his attention to a friend of his they call "Crook" approaching, greeting him joyfully. The two men begin conversing, but Izzie can't comprehend a word they're saying; her ears are ringing.

Slightly panicked, she gives her dad's leg another shove. When he doesn't respond, she tugs on his red Willie Nelson t-shirt. " _ Daddy, _ " she stresses. "I nee—"

Camilo cuts the child off, lifting a hand to signal his distaste. He hisses, " _ Izabela _ , go get your mama. Daddy's busy."

The sudden change in her father's tone takes her aback, causing the girl to blink a few times to make sure she has comprehended what she's heard. Camilo resumes having his conversation with Crook, who almost takes no consideration of the small child lingering closely. Just the two childhood pals, talking about work and other things nobody else but them cares about. Izzie almost finds it hard to breathe.

She pipes up again, " _ Daddy— _ "

" _ Izzie, _ " he reacts sharply, mimicking her emphasis. "I told you to go find Mama."

Izabela furrows her dark eyebrows at him, a deep crease forming in between them just like her father when he forms a similar expression. Rather than bursting into tears like she normally would, she obeys her father's wishes. Izzie lets out an irritated huff before leaving Camilo's side in search of the woman who birthed her.

The soft oldies tune dies down; someone replaces the record with some fast-paced, electronic number that causes almost everyone in the basement to hop to their feet. The bass rattles the cabinet speakers placed in the four corners of the room. Izzie pushes her way through any tight spaces she can find in between the anonymous sweaty bodies that glisten like glazed doughnuts.

A slender, dainty woman in a figure-hugging black slip comes into view, and the five year old breathes a sigh. Her mother's body moves fluidly with the club music, hips shaking and arms flailing towards the sky. She takes a sip from her plastic party cup as one of Camilo's college-aged roadies named Walter wraps an arm around the blonde's small waist. The pair laugh and move rhythmically to the bass. Izzie feels even sicker than before.

Jezebel Damone-Moreno is completely unaware of her young daughter watching her dance with a man that is  _ not _ her daughter's father nor her own husband. Izzie inches her way forward, hoping to tear Mama's attention away from her awkward dance partner, who seems to be sweating buckets. 

Walter pulls Jezebel even closer to himself, but she does not do anything to break from his hold. She takes another long drink from her Solo cup. Brushing the sandy hair out of his eyes, Walter whispers something in her ear, his mouth dangerously close to her throat. Jezebel almost chokes on her beverage as she lets out a loud cackle.

Izzie finally works up the courage to intervene. The child waddles to her mom's side, and gives her slim hip a gentle push. "Mama…"

Jezebel's entire demeanor changes from carefree party girl to concerned mother with a flick of a switch. The woman instantly discards all interest in her attractive dance partner, bending down at eye level with her daughter. Her words roll off her tongue awfully slow. " _Izziiieee_ _babyyyy,_ what're _you_ doin' up? I'sso late," Jezebel asks with a giggle. 

Though her speech is slurred, her voice is calm and subdued. Her gaze envelopes Izzie like a warm blanket. Suddenly Izabela feels a bit better… but the girl still fumbles over her words as she tries to concoct an explanation. 

She doesn't even get a legible word out before her mother notices her sagging, wet night clothes. Her ski-slope nose wrinkles slightly at the smell radiating off Izzie's clothes. Rather than becoming upset, Jezebel leans in closer to her daughter, closing the gap between them. She speaks softly to avoid anyone (like Walter the terrible dancer) overhearing their conversation, but loud enough for Izzie to hear over the music. "Did you have 'nother accident, hon?"

Izabela can smell the grownup drink on her mother's breath. She feels her cheeks grow hot at Jezebel's question. Nevertheless, the child bows her head, nodding in defeat. The blonde woman stands up straight— teetering ever so slightly— and holds her free hand out to the little girl. She passes her plastic cup to Walter for disposal.

Jezebel wiggles her fingers at Izzie, her gaudy wedding ring glistening in the low basement light. "C'mon, I'll get'chu  _ all _ cleaned up,  _ bay-bay _ ."

The tiny girl accepts her mother's grip. Two-thirds of the Moreno family ditch the Tiki Bar, barging past partygoers and bounding up the steps (Jezebel lacking more balance than her daughter for obvious reasons). The booming music grows very soft as Jezebel closes the basement door behind her. 

They stagger through the kitchen, the family room— where Izzie snatches Bongo from his previous spot on the sofa— through the main hallway, and finally to the staircase leading to the second level. Izzie abandons her mother's grasp, running ahead of her in her squishy pajamas. Jezebel discards her kitten heels and chases after the preschooler on unsteady feet. She stumbles on one of the steps, falling to her knees on the hardwood.

Izzie whips back around at the loud  _ thump  _ of her mother falling to the floor. "Mama, are you okay?"

Jezebel lets out a honk of laughter before using the railing to pull herself up. "I'm okay, baby. I'm okay…"

Back on wobbling feet, the blonde woman follows behind her daughter. The pair finally reach the top of the steps. Izzie begins to walk towards her parents' bedroom door in hopes of using their bathroom, but Jezebel quickly puts a stop to her antics.

" _ Girl _ , you are  _ not  _ takin' a bath in  _ my  _ bathroom. You're gettin' one in  _ your _ bathroom." Jezebel staggers to the doorway leading to the half-bath. She reaches in to flip the light on and gestures for Izabela to enter, a single blonde eyebrow cocked upward.

The preschooler grumbles, curling her lip at the thought of using the guest bathroom. It's meant to be her bathroom but she hates using it. She hates how cramped and boring the small washroom is; her parents' is vast and is always stocked abundantly with toilet paper and good-smelling soaps. Alas, she abides her mother's commands, toddling past her.

Jezebel begins to draw a bath. She tears back the plastic shower curtain, turns the knobs to the desired degrees, and plugs the drain. The water begins to fill the tub. Izzie plops down on the toilet seat, her mother sitting on the lip of the bathtub. Bongo the koala lays on the floor next to Izzie's feet. Jezebel sticks her hand in to test the temperature. She retracts as she finds the water suitable. She dumps in some Mr. Bubble for good measure, and watches as white foam forms atop the water.

Now only the two of them (with the addition of Birdy, who just happened to slither in), Jezebel speaks openly about the current issue. She lets out a sigh and lends her daughter a smile. "Oh, my Izabela Penelope. What are we gonna do with you?" She chuckles over the rushing sounds coming from the faucet.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Izzie murmurs. Jezebel's teasing grin is quickly replaced with a frown. Her slurred speech briefly turns back into the competent motherly-tone she typically upholds.

"Baby, I'm just  _ kidding _ . Accidents happen. It's okay, you're not in trouble."

Izzie is quiet for a moment before apologizing once more. "I'm sorry I made you leave the party."

"Oh, no, baby, don't even worry 'bout that," Jezebel scoffs, leaning forward and running her digits through Izzie's ebony tendrils. "The party was gettin' boring. I'd rather hang out with my girl, anyway."

"What about Kimmy?"

"Oh, she was busy with some boy. You know how Kim is," Jezebel rolls her eyes playfully. 

"What about Daddy?" Izzie inquires. Jezebel's jaw sets, and she breaks eye contact with her offspring. The woman shakes her head vigorously.

"He's too busy with friends," she replies grimly. Jezebel shifts so she is facing the shower knobs. Birdy paws past, rubbing up against Jezebel's tanned leg. Mama shuts the water off and turns her attention back to Izzie. "Come on, let's get those clothes off ya and get'cha  _ all _ clean."

Izzie hops off the toilet seat and stands in front of her mother. She raises her arms as Jezebel helps her shuck off the piss-drenched night shirt. The little girl then steps out of her wet pajama bottoms and panties. Jezebel tries her best to help her climb in the tub in her intoxicated state. Izzie hisses through her teeth at the hot water sending pinpricks through her skin. Her mother picks up the soiled pajamas and drapes them on the towel rack attached to the wall. She retrieves a washcloth from the cupboard.

"Is that why you were dancing with Walter?" Izzie mutters out of nowhere. She claps her hands together, causing a small explosion of Mr. Bubble foam to shoot every which way. 

Jezebel spins around on her heels to look at the girl. "What, babe?"

"Daddy was with his friends, so you were dancing with Walter," Izzie acknowledges. Her mother exhales, dragging herself back to the edge of the tub. The inebriated woman kneels down nearby, hanging her spidery arms and head over the lip. She rests her cheek on the porcelain. She dips a hand gingerly into the soapy foam, dropping the washcloth into the bath water.

"Your daddy didn't want to dance with me," she responds softly. "I asked him to, but he wouldn't."

"Why not?" Izzie frowns. That damned crease forms between her eyebrows, and it reminds the blonde woman more and more of the man she married.

"Well…" Jezebel sighs. "I don't know. Daddy just likes to spend time with his friends at parties. Talking about the band and other boy stuff, that's all."

"But you were dancing with Daddy earlier when I was downstairs…"

Izabela is indeed correct. Before the party became rowdy and congested, it had actually been quite fun for the little girl. It had only been her, her parents, Kimmy, and her father's bandmates in the Tiki Bar at first. They had spent a majority of the evening listening to Donna Summer cassette tapes and drinking Shirley Temples that Kimmy garnished with paper umbrellas. 

Camilo had waltzed Izzie through the basement like the princesses she saw in Disney films, making her squeal as he tickled her sides. They danced to disco, with Chino encouraging her to "shake a tail feather!". The pair had a play fight on the floor; Mama even got involved, rolling in a ball on the floor with her and Daddy, all three howling with laughter until tears flowed from their eyes.

It is moments like this that Izzie cherishes most dearly; she wishes they could happen all the time.

Alas, Jezebel does not return the exchange. She fishes the blue washcloth out of the tub, swipes a nearby bottle of citrus-scented body wash, and pours some of the gelatinous liquid onto the terry cloth. She commences the scrubbing, cleaning all the "ick" from Izzie's olive skin. Izzie sits quietly in the hot water in a fetal position, chin resting on her knobby knees.

Large hot tears begin to well up in the little girl's eyes. She senses the sorrow brewing within her mother at this precise moment; she acknowledges that her father did not give her a helping hand in a time of need. Izzie sniffs, trying her best to hide her emotions from Jezebel. But she does not succeed.

"Izzie, what's wrong? Is the water too warm?" Jezebel asks, halting her task of bathing the child. Izzie simply shakes her head, her curls swishing back and forth expressively.

Jezebel pleads, "Honey, talk to me, I can fix the water—"

Her proposal is cut short as a quiet sob escapes Izzie's Cupid's bow lips. The girl isn't even sure as to  _ why  _ she's so upset; maybe it's exhaustion, maybe it  _ is  _ the water, maybe it's something entirely different. Regardless, Izzie can't seem to bring herself to stop.

Her cries grow into full-on hiccupping sobs, shoulders shaking while she hugs her knees to her bare chest. She lets out a broken "Mama" before wiping her runny nose with her hand. Jezebel, taken aback by her daughter's sudden outburst, quickly pulls the drain plug and stands up to gather a towel.

"Izzie, baby, what is the  _ matter _ ?" Jezebel slurs with a voice full of genuine concern. She reaches into the tub, scooping the child up out of the water by her armpits. She doesn't care about the water that's dripping from Izzie's body onto her expensive velvet dress and onto the floor. She sets the child down on the tile. Izzie continues to wail and shiver, even as Jezebel wraps the cotton Sesame Street towel around her tiny frame.

"Izabela, talk to me, honey," Jezebel begs. "C'mon, you gotta tell Mama what's wrong."

She uses a corner of the towel to wipe tears from the little girl's chubby cheeks. Izzie continues to cry, her sobs coming out repeated and short like a scratched record. Jezebel feels tears of her own bubble up through her lids.

"Izabela, please," the woman implores. She gnaws on her lower lip in anticipation, waiting for the child to calm down and give her an answer. Jezebel figures it's guilt from wetting the bed; though she doesn't deem it as anything more than an "accident".

Izzie does not have an answer for her mother, however. Instead, the dark-haired preschooler simply launches herself forward, throwing her arms around her intoxicated mother's shoulders. The towel follows, wrapping both Jezebel and Izzie in this damp Elmo and Friends cocoon. Her teased-and-moussed locks stick to the girl's damp arms. She buries her face in the curve of Jezebel's neck, inhaling her Tommy Girl perfume and faint scent of perspiration. 

Jezebel gives in, snaking her arms around the damp, bare child that she birthed half a decade before. Her little star, the small speck of light in her dull life that was once flourishing— her beautiful Izabela Penelope.

Izzie instantly feels her muscles relax as Jezebel plants a kiss to the crown of her head. Jezebel nuzzles her nose into Izzie's hair, and sniffles just loud enough for Izzie to hear.

Her mother's arms are her sanctuary. This is the one place where Izabela feels safe, the one place she feels as though things are normal.

It is the one place she wishes Daddy would appear more often.


	2. dr. ojeda's diagnosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was so sloppy, my apologies. expect an edit. i just wanted to get something out there to keep you guys engaged! thanks for reading!

**Janu** **ary, 2000**

**Tribeca Pediatrics**

** Los Angeles, CA **

Izabela Moreno swings her legs as she sits atop the examination table, the heels of her white Velcro sneakers banging against the metal. Her pediatrician, Dr. Ojeda, has quickly stepped out of the room to find reason for her sudden chronic bedwetting. Jezebel is seated across from her in a stiff wooden chair, her elbow resting on the arm and her cheek in her palm. Both are completely silent, taking in the circus animal wallpaper and the clean smell of the office.

Izzie is thankful for today: she was taken out of school early today for the appointment, just as her teacher was starting the class on a new math lesson. Jezebel had picked her up in the school office, taking Izzie's pink Malibu Barbie lunchbox from her pudgy hand and holding onto her free one as they sauntered out to her mother's silver Porsche. Visits to Dr. Ojeda's always mean grape lollipops and Dragon Tales stickers for Izzie to snag, so the little girl is very pleased to be there.

Despite the child's enthusiasm about being at the doctor's office, Jezebel cannot help but fret over what conclusion Dr. Ojeda will come to. Izabela is a very healthy child... how on Earth does one put a stop to frequent bedwetting? The rest of Izzie's yearly physical had gone completely smooth: no abnormalities, no odd reflexes. Her heart rate is perfect, her height and weight have proved to be average for her age. Izabela Penelope Moreno is overall a healthy five-year-old girl... that happens to suffer from an acute case of involuntary nocturnal urination.

Jezebel shakes off her feelings for anxiousness, and turns her attention to the curly-haired preschooler across the way. "Anywhere special you'd like to go for lunch?" Jezebel suddenly asks, shooting a faint but attentive smile to her daughter. The five-year-old takes a second to think before blurting out her answer.

"Can we go to McDonald's, Mama?" Izzie proposes in her trademark rasp that never fails to make her mother's grin stretch even wider. The twenty-six-year-old woman titters softly as she nods her head, her blonde curls bouncing in their ponytail.

"Y'know what? That sounds like an excellent idea, baby," Jezebel praises. "I could go for a Big Mac myself."

Izzie wrinkles her nose at her mother's desired meal. "Hamburgers are yucky."

"Oh that's right, you only like the chicken nuggets," Jezebel notes with a giggle. "Maybe if you're good enough and eat all your food, we'll play in the Play Place for a little while."

The child's eyes light up at her mother's scheme. "Oh, yes, Mama! Can we? Can we please?"

"Only if you're a good girl!" Jezebel explains.

Her daughter is always a well-behaved girl; she rarely acts out at home or in public, she seldom throws a tantrum. Even as an infant, it was a rare occurrence for Izabela to cry or get fussy. She has always smiled, she has always laughed, she has always been polite, saying "please" and "thank you" when the time is right. In all her five years on Earth, Izabela Penelope has practically served as the definition of "a perfect child". Camilo even agrees with this; once in a while when he is home, he and Izabela take trips to the grocery store or the bank together, to which he always comes home gushing about "what a sweet baby" he and Jezebel brought into the world.

Jezebel is very grateful for this, especially with how chaotic Izzie's upbringing has been; if speaking honestly, she expected the complete opposite from her daughter, what with Camilo being almost entirely absent due to his music career and Jezebel raising the girl practically on her own. The woman can't help but feel extremely blessed.

Suddenly, there is a knock on the wooden door of their room. The handle turns with a soft _snick,_ and the door opens to reveal Izzie's physician, Dr. Josefine Ojeda. She is a small, slender woman with a thick mess of auburn brown hair and a mouth smeared in red lipstick. She is a bit older than Izzie's mother, and has been looking over the little girl and her health since she was three years old. The doctor truly enjoys seeing the Moreno girls, their smiling faces always bringing a bit of cheer to the clinic during their short visits. She has only met Mr. Moreno a handful of times, and is less than pleased with his almost-constant absence. Josefine always takes note of Jezebel's tired eyes and weak smile, and she knows that this woman is feeling some sort of pain that she will never understand even as a doctor.

Dr. Ojeda gives a soft "hello" prior to dropping her information. Her gaze falls onto the little girl swaying on the table. "Izabela, I'm going to speak with your mother in the hall, alright? You can read a book or play with any of the toys in the bin in the corner if you'd like." The pediatrician then directs her attention onto the young woman seated to her left. "Mrs. Moreno, could I see you out in the hallway please?"

Jezebel looks up at the older woman, wide-eyed like a child. "O-oh, of course," she stammers before rising to her feet. She turns to look at her daughter, who has hopped off the examination table and is helping herself to the bin of old, thrift-store-donated toys in the corner. "We'll be right back, alright, babes?"

"Okay, Mama," Izzie calls over her shoulder absentmindedly. Jezebel flashes a shy grin at Dr. Ojeda, who does not return the expression. The stern Colombian woman opens the door leading Jezebel out, clipboard against the small of the blonde's back.

Izzie's mother keeps her head low, and she can't help but feel like a child that is about to be punished for eating a snack before dinner. Jezebel pads across the carpet, her Etnies Fader sneakers barely making a sound. She hears Josefine close the door and opens her mouth to speak, but is cut off by the doctor.

"Mrs. Moreno, Izzie's bedwetting isn't her fault," Ojeda blurts. Jezebel flinches at her obvious yet sudden conclusion. The blonde pulls her hands into fists and draws them into her sweater sleeves, a nervous habit she adopted back in high school. Jezebel folds her arms across her chest and her frosty blue eyes lock with Ojeda's ebony pupils.

"Dr. Ojeda, I know that--" She is cut off again by the doctor, but this time with a tad bit more hostility.

"It's _yours_ , Jezebel."

The impact of her accusation almost knock Izabela's mother flat on her ass. Jezebel feels something catch in her throat, making it hard for her to speak for a brief moment. Her mouth's as dry as the Sahara. She flutters her lashes in response. The girl finds her voice, but does not react as calmly as she hoped.

"What do you mean _my_ fault?" Jezebel snaps, her voice rising with each syllable. A passing nurse turns her head to look at the frustrated mother, but quickly saunters past. Dr. Ojeda frowns at Jezebel's response and lets out a sigh.

"Mrs. Moreno, Izabela seems to be dealing with a lot of stress at home--"

"What, do you think I abuse my kid or something?" Jezebel huffs in aggravation, jumping to unnecessary conclusions. She feels no control of the words that spill from her lips. Her tongue seems to drip with venom. She never gets _this_ angry; she is usually _so_ good at hiding it. But today is a different story. Something is bubbling inside of her-- something hot, something vile, something sour. She's so pissed she could spit. _Who the fuck does Ojeda think she is? Does she not think I am capable of caring for my child?_

"Jezebel, of course I don't think that. But you need to consider the situation at home. Granted, I don't know the full detail of things, nor do I need to. But I do know things are tough for you... for _all_ of you. Your husband isn't home. You and Izabela both have told me he's gone nearly three-quarters of the year. And when he is home, you fight with him constantly."

Jezebel blinks. "... who told you we--"

"Izabela's a smart girl. She knows when her mommy and daddy aren't getting along. All children can sense when there's something wrong in the house. They have this way of sensing a bad aura, even if the arguments aren't happening right in front of them."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that both you and your husband need to take Izabela's well-being into consideration." Josefine begins scribbling something down on her clipboard, and Jezebel grits her teeth. She wants to snatch the plastic from her hands and stick it where the sun doesn't shine.

"We _do_ think about Izzie. We worry about her all the time--"

Ojeda begins to tear the paper on her clipboard. "Mrs. Moreno, you and your husband need to figure things out between yourselves. That's where you need to start in terms of helping Izabela heal and make progress, as well as patching up the relationship between you and Camilo."

Jezebel does not have time to respond before a scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it is thrust in her face. The blonde plucks it from the doctor's nimble digits. "What's this?"

Josefine exhales, clicking her ballpoint pen and putting it back in her breast pocket. "Her name is Norah Ward. She and I went to medical school together. I think she'll be able to help you and Mr. Moreno quite well--"

"What does she have to do with me and my husband?" Jezebel barks, waving the paper slightly to express her disinterest. Dr. Ojeda lours in irritation at the young woman facing her. She holds her clipboard close to her chest with one hand, exhaling through her nose. 

"... she's a licensed marriage and sex therapist."

Jezebel feels her stomach drop to her feet. Not once has she _ever_ considered going to a professional to burden them with her dissatisfaction in her marriage. She knows Camilo will not take too kindly to the idea, what with how "jam-packed" his schedule is-- full of photo shoots, interviews, recording sessions for the new album, and the like. He could _not_ drop everything just to talk to some shrink about his lack of intimacy and attention towards his spouse.

Being the front man of a rock group such as Deftones means Camilo is always too preoccupied with professional affairs rather than something as silly (to him, detrimental to Jezebel) as his "girl back home". She knows he loves her, she knows he loves and adores their daughter, she knows he married her at twenty-years-old simply because he was "head over heels" for her... But she also knows that he will not put their marriage before the band. 

Deftones before chicks-- a mantra that has practically been written in stone since the boys were in high school. And this mantra has stuck, regardless of nuptial bliss or other serious relationships. Hell, Abe even has "Trust No Bitch" written across his kick drumhead in black duct tape. Jezebel and Camilo are bound by silver bands wrapped around their fingers-- but these don't matter when his occupation came into play.

Ojeda continues to speak despite the young woman's obvious discomfort. "I think it would be very good for you and your husband to have a chat with her, figure out what to work on and where to start."

Jezebel swallows the lump in her throat. She stands tall, tilting her chin up slightly to show some ounce of dignity. "We don't need to see a therapist, thank you."

But the words that fall from Jezebel's lips aren't convincing, not even to herself.

Dr. Ojeda's mouth forms a Morse-code dash across her tanned face. Jezebel is almost convinced her stubbornness will make the bitch back off, but alas, her plan proves to have failed when Ojeda's next few words rip a hole inside of her.

"Before you try to prove me wrong, Jezebel... you seriously need to consider the feelings of that little girl in that room," Josefine hisses, pointing at the wooden door leading to the room where Izzie peacefully plays with sticky, preowned toys. Jezebel swears she can see the doctor's eyes growing glassy with tears. "If you don't... well, your priorities are _fucked._ "

Jezebel winces at the usage of harsh language from her daughter's physician. She opens her mouth to say something in defense, but Dr. Ojeda has disappeared down the hall before Jezebel can even have the chance to defend herself.

• ················· • ················· •

" _Mama,_ " Izabela stresses from her car seat, grape lollipop stuck in one of her cheeks. Her mother isn't paying attention as she weaves through heavy traffic. One hand on the steering wheel, the other frantically pressing buttons on her Nokia cellular phone. Since they left the doctor's office, Mama has been acting strangely. Izzie notices that her mother looks... upset. She looks worried. More worried than when Daddy crashed his motorcycle. Izzie didn't know what was wrong. Did Dr. Ojeda tell her something bad?

"What is it, baby?" Jezebel asks, not paying the slightest bit of attention to her child as she nears a roundabout. She maneuvers the small sports car through the busy junction, and begins to go in the direction of the nearest McDonald's.

Izzie pulls the sucker out of her cheek to talk coherently. "When is Daddy gonna be home?"

Jezebel begins fiddling with her cell phone again, cradling the device between her ear and her shoulder as she steers the car. "I'm not sure, Iz. I'm calling him right now."

Just as Jezebel gets that last syllable out, a familiar voice comes through the other end of the phone. "Hiya, sweet _thang._ "

His stupid pet names always make the blonde roll her eyes; usually she has a good comeback in response to the dumb pet names, but today Jezebel has better things to worry about. "Hey, honey, how's work?"

Camilo pauses before answering with a chuckle. "... Work is... uh, work. Terry's 'boutta wring my neck. Says I'm drivin' him nuts."

"Do you do anything else, or do you just torture that poor guy?" Jezebel teases. The boys in Deftones always like to pick on their producer, Terry Date. Their constant procrastination and smart mouths never fail to make the older man become infuriated with them, and Jezebel often wonders how long it will take before the legendary Terry Date finally pulls the plug on their five-year-long partnership.

"Do you expect any less?" She can hear her husband smiling through his words, then he giggles like a little boy. It reminds her of the way he used to be when they were younger: so carefree and giggling over every little thing. The sound makes her smile, but only brief.

Camilo exhales into the receiver. "So how's Mini Me doing?"

"Oh, Izzie? She's alright, Ojeda didn't do much. Just told me to slap a Pull-Up on her before she goes to sleep at night and she should grow out of the bed wetting eventually." Jezebel brings the car to a stop at a red light. Across the way, she can see the Golden Arches in the distance.

"See? I told you she didn't need to go to the doctor!" Camilo exclaims with a laugh. He sighs prior to continuing. "Plus, that Ojeda woman is such a prude. Makes ya feel two feet tall walkin' in there."

"Tell me about it," Jezebel scoffs. Remembering the slip of paper the doctor had given her, the blonde feels her palms go clammy. _It's now or never, Damone. Or he'll never listen._ "You know... she did, um, have a good point earlier when she and I were talking."

"Really? And what would that be?"

Jezebel inhales through her nose. The red light brightens to green, and she switches her right foot from the brake pedal to the accelerator. _Now or never, coward._

"She thinks we should see a therapist, Chino."

The line goes quiet, and she is almost convinced her husband dropped the call. She reaches the McDonald's parking lot entrance, flipping her right turn signal on.

"Chino, are you there?" Jezebel snaps. She hears a scuffle on the other end, but soon her spouse's voice comes through.

"Y-yeah, baby, I'm here. Look, can we talk about this later? When I'm home? I really don't want to talk about family affairs in the middle of my _business_ affairs."

"Your 'business' can fucking wait for two seconds," Jezebel promptly snarls into the phone. She notices Izabela recoil in the rear view mirror, and a part of her feels awful for doing this right in front of the child, being that this _exact_ behavior is what is the cause of Izzie's accidental urination.

"Jez--"

"Chino, we need to figure this out," Jezebel booms as she pulls the car into a parking space. She brings the Porsche to a halt, and puts on the brake. "You can't keep running away from our problems."

The Hispanic man's voice drops very low and quiet on the other side, almost a whisper. "Like _you_ of all people have any room to talk about 'running away from problems'."

Jezebel feels heat creep up her neck. She can't tell if it's embarrassment because she knows deep down he's stating facts, or if it's from red-hot, blind rage. "Chino, I--"

He has the privilege of cutting off his wife now. "Listen, Jezebel, I have to go, we have a meeting about the art direction for the album. We can talk about this later, okay? I have to go."

"Chino, _please_ listen to me," the young wife begs. "Don't hang up--"

With that, the line goes dead, and the call is brought to a close. Just as she predicted before, Chino is completely uninterested in the idea of getting any sort of guidance from an outside source. Jezebel feels hot alligator tears bubble in her eyelids. She squeezes her small cellular phone tightly in her hand, balling her other hand into a fist. "Damn it!" 

The young woman rakes a hand through her hair before tossing her cellphone onto the passenger seat. She leans forward against the steering wheel, burying her face in her palms. As soon as the tears begin to dribble down her flushed cheeks, a meek voice from the back causes her heart the flutter ever so slightly.

"Mama, are you okay?"

Jezebel sniffles, nodding even though she knows Izabela can't see her from the backseat. "Yeah, Izzie baby. Mama's fine."

"... can I unbuckle?"

"Yes, honey, go ahead, we gotta eat anyway," Jezebel notes as she sits up straight. She leans against the headrest, feeling her blue eyes burn with scathing tears. She hears Izzie click her seatbeat. The blonde chokes slightly on the lump in her throat. She suddenly feels a sensation on the back of her head... little fingers playing with her ponytail.

"It'll be okay, Mama," that familiar, soothing, raspy voice coos in her ear. Jezebel smiles wryly, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Sometimes she wonders how she got so lucky to have such a smart, sweet kid like Izzie. 

She only hopes she'll stay that way in the long run.

• ················· • ················· •

"Who was that?" A dark haired woman asks over the lip of her champagne glass. Her lover looks a bit frazzled after that irritating phone call. She knows exactly who had called him, and the very reminder makes her want to curl her lip in disgust.

Soft jazz music plays in the background of this upscale restaurant, and the two lovers sit at their table, patiently awaiting whatever gourmet lunch they ordered. Hell, they couldn't speak French, so they had no clue what they had ordered. They only went out for lunch at this French place in the Hills, because no one either of them knew could afford it... that way, no one would find them

The man across the way shakes his head, black bangs falling into his eyes. He reaches for his companion's dainty hand, entwining their fingers together. She takes note of the fact that his left ring finger is still adorned with a certain piece of silver, and it makes her want to gag. _When will he just drop her already?_

"You know who it was, baby girl," he replies, grabbing for his own glass of scotch. He rubs her knuckles with the pad of his thumb as he takes a swig of the amber colored alcohol. 

"Can't you tell her you're busy?" The woman huffs, leaning back in her chair and breaking away from her lover's grasp. She folds her arms over her bust, hiding the little bit of cleavage she decided to show for the occasion. Her man sets his glass back down on the tablecloth. He offers her that dopey, toothless smile he always does when she pouts. _He probably looks at **her** like that too, _she thinks bitterly.

"I did, Rayann. There's nothing to worry about, sweetheart," he reassures her, gravitating forward across the table to be closer to her. He looks at her through half-lidded eyes, his gaze both seductive and endearing. She feels a smirk creep across her own lips.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at _all_ ," he grins, showing off all of his pearly white teeth. The woman, Rayann, giggles to herself before leaning in to plant a kiss on her lunch date. 

"Chino, you make me complete," she admits as she draws her head back. He smiles dreamily as he sits back in his own seat. She looks at his wedding ring once more, faintly scowling at the piece of jewelry on her lover's finger. She knows he's full of it; she knows he still loves his "cute little wife", even after all the shit they put each other through. She knows that when they fuck, he only thinks about his wife. She knows he won't ever leave the broad ( _or_ their baby, for that matter) to be with her, and _only_ her.

The woman named Rayann swipes up her champagne glass once more and before taking a sip, she mutters, "I just wish you would return the favor."


	3. minerva at work

**February 3rd, 2000**

**Los Angeles County Art Museum**

**Los Angeles, CA**

“This concludes our in-depth look inside the museum's Rex Brandt collection. I truly hope you enjoyed today’s tour, and if you did, please if you could be so kind as to leave any feedback you may have in the dropbox inside the museum gift shop. My name is Jezebel Moreno, and I’d like to thank you lovely appreciators of art for joining me today!” 

The blonde woman chirps to the group of less-than-enthused tourists who seem more concerned with filing toward the gift shop full of cheap knick-knacks. The horde of commoners let out muffled words of appreciation for Jezebel the docent, who grins broadly at each and every one of them. She begins to walk away, edging her way back to the entryway of the gallery. As she begins to wander off, a strong hand claps her shoulder, causing her to stop dead in her tracks. A low, smoky voice fills her ears, and Jezebel swears the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up.

“Excellent work, Mrs. Moreno. You never fail to impress," the soothing male voice praises. Jezebel's ears seem to prick up at the words of approval. She feels herself smile as she turns to face the familiar stranger.

"Thank you, Mr. Lovelace," the woman expresses. "That group was a tad rough. I couldn't keep them fully engaged. I was worried I wasn't meeting standards."

The man called Lovelace, her boss, lets out a chuckle as he pushes his glasses up onto his nose. "Not meeting standards? Are you kidding? You always do fantastic when it comes to your knowledge of art. And you have such wonderful people skills, as well, Jezebel."

This last comment makes her scoff, remembering how she was fired from a Mexican restaurant almost a decade prior due to poor customer service skills. Jezebel shrugs her shoulders, folding her hands together in front of her pencil skirt.

"What can I say? I just try to treat people… like people. I like being able to teach people new things, whether they absorb the information or not."

"Well, if they don't learn anything when they leave here, they missed out on an incredible experience with one of our best guides," Lovelace smiles kindly at his subordinate. Jezebel rolls her eyes jokingly at her boss, though she truly appreciates his compliments. She rocks back and forth slightly on her heels as the pair hold their gaze for what seems like a second too long.

Lovelace coughs awkwardly into his fist before gazing at his gold wristwatch. He cocks a dark eyebrow. “Well, Mrs. Moreno, I think it’s about time for your lunch break. Isn’t that right, birthday girl?”

Jezebel grins at her employer softly before glancing back down at her nude high heels. It is, in fact, her twenty-seventh birthday today, and she had been trying her best to ignore it. But she knew that as soon as people at the museum caught wind of the event, she would be showered with appraisal and birthday wishes, therefore she has tried her best to prepare for this moment.

“I actually was going to skip out on lunch today,” she explains. “I’d rather just spend the half hour doing another tour instead of wasting it by sitting in my car and patiently waiting for KROQ to play a good song, which they hardly ever do these days.”

She does not expect her boss to get a kick out of her joke, but Lovelace is amused nonetheless. Dimples form on his cheeks as he belts out a laugh. “They don’t play your husband enough, do they?”

Jezebel chuckles bitterly and shakes her head. “They play his band too much, that’s the problem! I can’t ever get away, I swear!”

Though she is merely joking, she can’t help but feel a sense of honesty in her words. No matter where she goes, Camilo is almost always there-- on magazines, on promotional posters, on the radio, on MTV. Jezebel is tremendously proud of all that her husband has accomplished in the last five years… but she always seems to choke on the bile that grows in the back of her throat at the mention of his name.

“Well, all I can say is that spending your birthday in your Porsche or dealing with an extra group of tourists is certainly not the way to commemorate the day, my dear,” the man responds wholeheartedly. Lovelace takes a step closer to her, placing a hand on the spot between her shoulder blades. The two of them begin to walk, Lovelace guiding Jezebel in an unbeknownst direction. He pushes his glasses back up with his index finger. 

“Come on, Jezebel,” Lovelace pleads. “You don’t have to work so hard all the time. Spare a few minutes at least. There’s a potluck in the breakroom today.”

Jezebel raises an eyebrow as they make their way towards the main corridor where guests scurry unorganized like cockroaches to a light switch. “And why wasn’t I notified about this, Mr. Lovelace?”

Her boss rolls his honey-brown eyes playfully. “Firstly, you know you can just call me ‘Benjamin’. And secondly, Mrs. Moreno, you should have gotten an email about it last week.”

Jezebel feels her jaw go slack ever so slightly, her heels clacking against the marble floor. “I never got an email! Now I’m gonna go into the break room looking like garbage.”

Benjamin snorts, “Not bringing a dish to a potluck lunch isn’t going to make you look bad, Jezebel. Don’t even worry about it.”

It suddenly hits Jezebel why she was not informed of the so-called “potluck” that was happening at this very moment, and she smirks. “This isn’t some birthday ploy, is it?”

“What? No! Goodness, Jezebel, do you just think everything is about you?” Benjamin teases. She can sense the insincerity in his voice, causing her to shake her head slightly.

“Oh, _whatever_ , Lovelace,” the blonde scoffs. Benjamin shoots her an authoritative gaze that honestly leaves her a tad confused.

“Mrs. Boudreaux planned this whole thing for you, and I wasn’t supposed to let it slip. Try to act surprised when we walk in there, _please_ ,” Jezebel’s superior begs.

The name “Mrs. Boudreaux” makes Jezebel feel as though she will combust with joy. Mrs. Boudreaux: the woman she has known simply as “Ashlee Liu” for nearly fifteen years, who married her on-and-off again sweetheart and reluctantly took his French name (Ashlee thought it was silly at first, being Chinese with a Creole surname). Ashlee is the girl that has stuck by her side through the good, the bad, and the ugly-- hell, Ashlee is like Dirty Harry in a sense. A badass with no remorse.

Attached at the hip since they were twelve years old, the two women are complete opposites but always seem to understand each other. In the sixth grade, they had instantly clicked through their mutual love of painting and tap dancing, and their friendship has progressed through the years. They fight like an old married couple, but are always there to support one another when times appear rough. 

There are times when they feud and distance themselves from one another (one of these arguments had occurred a few months prior, but has been recently resolved). The only thing neither of them seem to come to an agreement on is Camilo’s position in Jezebel’s life. It is simple: Jezebel is married to him, has a child with him-- whereas Ashlee hates him with an undying, burning passion. Ashlee and Camilo have butted heads since their elementary school days-- having known each other longer than what they both did Jezebel-- but the love both parties have for gorgeous blonde is similar to adding kerosene to a fire.

Jezebel and her boss reach the door leading to the employees only section of the establishment. Benjamin opens the white door for her, gesturing for her to enter the corridor first. "Birthday girls first."

The blonde chides, "Thank you, kind sir!"

As the two begin making their way towards the break room, Benjamin pops a simple question that turns Jezebel into a giddy child.

"Have any plans for the night?"

"I do, actually!" Jezebel says happily. "My husband is taking me to this French restaurant in the Hills that we have yet to go to. He told me he has another surprise up his sleeve, and I can only imagine what Camilo has planned."

Benjamin beams wryly in her direction. "That's very kind of him. I'm sure you two are going to have a splendid time."

"It'll be sort of… weird, if I'm being honest," Jezebel laughs ironically, her mood dampening slightly. "I should be completely over the moon, since he and I rarely ever go out with just the two of us, because we're both incredibly busy."

"I sense a 'but' coming on,"

"... _but,_ I'm so used to having our daughter with us. It'll be quiet without her there, you know? I'm so used to her being there, telling us how her day was and making us laugh with all the silly stuff she says."

Benjamin takes note of Jezebel's longing, but tries to help her see a bright side to her minor dilemma. "That's good that you and your husband are having a night of alone time, though, since you said it's a rare occurrence. You deserve a bit of a break from being a mom. I can only imagine the hard work you do at home with that title under your belt."

Jezebel sighs, shrugging her shoulders. "Yes, being 'Mommy' is tiring, but… Izabela is my other half, you know? Like, sure, I'm married to Camilo and I love him to death. But, Izzie's my baby!"

Benjamin simpers wide at Jezebel's claims and her frosty blue eyes that seem to be filled with love at the mention of her child. "You know, I have yet to meet this little girl."

"She is quite the character, she says some of the funniest stuff and sings all the time. She's either going into the music industry or she'll end up the next Carol Burnett, I'm sure!" Jezebel and Benjamin both let out loud, somewhat obnoxious laughter as they finally reach the door of the staff break room.

The boss peers at her over his wire rims. "Now remember: act surprised, _please_."

"Of course, I wouldn't want to disappoint Ashlee," Jezebel replies.

The dark-haired man smirks at her before pushing the door open to reveal almost all of Jezebel's colleagues, equipped with party hats and noisemakers. Helium balloons of all different colors line the ceiling, and a buffet of home cooked dishes are strewn across the back counter. A large purple-frosted sheet cake with a '27' candle sits upon the table closest to the doorway. Jezebel's best friend and long-time partner in crime, Ashlee Liu-Boudreaux, stands at the front of the pack, lighting the candle wicks with an Aim-N-Flame.

"Happy birthday!" The large group of people cry as they blow their party horns and clap.

Jezebel was not expecting this big of a celebration, so her gleeful reaction is of an entirely honest fashion. Before she can even express her gratitude to her associates, they as well as Benjamin Lovelace begin to erupt into the ever-so cliché birthday anthem. Ashlee grins broadly at her gal pal, who mirrors the expression but with a blush growing across the apples of her cheeks.

Once the group finishes the celebratory song, they all wait anxiously for Jezebel to blow out her candles. The birthday girl takes a step forward, bends down, and closes her eyes for a split second-- making her wish that she hopes will come true, as well as counting her blessings. She flutters her baby blues back open and lets out a puff of air. The extinguishing of the tiny flames makes everyone in the room applaud and watch patiently for her response.

The birthday girl stands up straight, looking around the room at the people she has started considering more like members of her family than just average, everyday coworkers. Jezebel claps her hands together. "Thank you all so very much! You really didn't need to do this all for me!"

"This wasn't our idea!" A fellow docent named Miguel exclaims flamboyantly. "This was _all_ Miss Ashlee's doing!"

Jezebel’s eyes flicker onto the small Asian woman standing at the front of the huddle. Ashlee bares her teeth to her best friend, and before she knows it, her tall blonde comrade has her enveloped in a tight embrace. Jezebel gives Ashlee’s frame a squeeze, bending down slightly due to the height difference. The latter snakes her arms around her best friend’s middle, and the two women rock back and forth in this warm hug.

“Thank you, Mouse,” Jezebel chuckles under her breath. Ashlee wrinkles her nose slightly at the use of the nickname that was originally adopted to pick on her about her height. Regardless, she can’t help but crack a smile.

“Of course, Mad-Dog," Ashlee quips as she draws her head back to take a look at the birthday girl. The old nickname for Jezebel makes her shoot Ashlee a pair of phony dagger-eyes; she tries to come off stern, but can't hold back her giggles.

"Are we just gonna stand here and watch you girls flirt with each other, or are we gonna eat? I'm starvin'!" Miguel pipes up yet again. Ashlee rolls her almond-shaped eyes and flips him the bird before turning her attention back on Jezebel.

"This is seriously great, thank you so much, Ash," Jezebel says, grabbing Ashlee's hands. "You really didn't have to go through all the trouble."

"Trouble? Oh, _please_ ," Ashlee snorts playfully as she pulls her hands from Jezebel's and grabs her by the shoulders. She shakes the blonde slightly. "Jezebel, you deserve this! Quit fussing and let's cut your fuckin' cake! It's marble with Bavarian cream, your favorite!"

"I second that! Let's slice the bitch!" A female security guard named Eliza chimes in, making everyone else howl. Benjamin claps a hand onto Jezebel's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. She feels that familiar heat spreads across her chest and to her ears.

"I'll cut it," he offers kindly. "Anything for the hardworking birthday girl!"

" _Ooh_ , Boss Man actually wants to do something around here," gallery director Simon jests. This comment causes everyone, especially Jezebel, to burst into laughter. Benjamin, who is never one to get easily offended by a joke, smirks at his employees and points a finger in Simon's direction.

"Hey, Rodrigo, remember: I write your paychecks," Lovelace fires back, arousing a round of _ooh_ 's from the rest of the group. Simon simply shakes his head and the corners of his mouth curve upwards.

"Alright, are we just gonna pick on the boss, or are we gonna eat some of this great food you guys made in honor of our lovely Belle?" Benjamin asks the group, gesturing to Jezebel, who is practically twiddling her thumbs to distract herself from her growling belly. The rest of the group claps and insists on eating. Jezebel looks across the way, her icy blue eyes meeting Ashlee's chocolate brown ones. The two companions share a mutual expression of elation, and it is at this moment that Jezebel feels content.

After a long time of Los Angeles alienation, Jezebel finally feels at home.

• ················· • ················· •

Depeche Mode blares from her Porsche speakers as Jezebel enters the interstate. Tinted windows up, high heels off, Tupperware containers full of leftover food and birthday cake lining the backseat. Jezebel is ready for the plans her husband has for them, and she prays he will follow through. She straightens her sunglasses on her nose and flips her visor down to block out remaining sunlight. As she does this, something falls from the mirror and lands into her lap.

Jezebel fiddles to find the loose object in her lap without taking her eyes off the highway. She feels a square piece of photo paper, and picks it up with her thumb and index finger. Bringing the square up to her face, the view makes her lift her sunglasses and widen her eyes. The corner of her lips move toward the sky. She nibbles on her bottom lip as her eyes flicker from the road to the photograph she holds in her free hand.

A faded polaroid that captured a seemingly innocent image of middle schoolers at a birthday party. But upon further inspection, it encapsulates what could be considered to be the most important day of Jezebel Therese Damone-Moreno's life. The single day that changed the entire course of her life before her very eyes. 

There they were, the two halves of the Moreno-Damone union frozen in time with awkward smiles plastered on their acne-prone, fourteen-year-old faces. At this point, neither of them knew each other's names, but there seemed to be some sort of force that kept bringing them together. They had been practically inseparable as soon as the party started, and stayed that way until they were dropped off at their respective households at the end of the afternoon. Anonymous but intrigued by one another for a reason neither could explain.

In the frame, the flash had gone off, so Camilo's brown eyes were squinting and had a red effect. His skinny brown arm was woven around the gaunt shoulders of a young, knobby-kneed Jezebel. The woman almost laughs at her preteen husband in the photo, what with his ridiculous Madonna cut-off shirt and fluorescent pink shorts.

She was wearing his baby-blue snapback hat with the brim turned to the back (this makes her stifle a laugh; she no longer steals his caps, but their daughter does just to pick on her daddy, only he doesn't seem to mind the little girl stealing his hats). Jezebel had one arm wrapped around Camilo's waist, and the other holding a tiny, grinning Ashlee Liu close.

The other faces in the photo were of girls she either had forgotten existed, as well as of boys she considered brothers: Todd Wilkinson, Dominic Garcia, Shaun Lopez, Abe Cunningham. All boys her husband had grown up with, all boys that had treated her with mad respect no matter the circumstance. 

They all stood behind birthday girl and class snob Josie Garcia – the girl who had an undying hatred towards Jezebel in the weeks following that fateful day. After that prophetic birthday party, Jezebel never spoke to Josie again. Then again, Jezebel can't seem to remember if anyone truly talked to Josie after that day.

Jezebel runs a fingertip along the edge of the photo paper. She sobers and shakes her head, laying the photograph in her lap. "He loved me more when he didn't know my name," she mumbles grimly under her breath.

That was such a long time ago, but it feels like it was only yesterday that this cloddish, baby-faced Hispanic boy swept her off her feet in a matter of minutes. He had not known her name, but his feelings for her seemed much stronger back when anonymity was a driving force behind their fixations.

She remembers the way Camilo had looked at her when they first laid eyes on each other in Josie's mother's kitchen. The way his brow furrowed in bashfulness and his lips never once split to show her his teeth. She remembers the way he was able to make her laugh after only a few seconds of speaking; how much he stumbled over his words and tried his hardest to impress her with his basic knowledge of breakdancing and popular music of the time. Hell, he had even invited her to watch him skateboard in the bad part of the neighborhood where he lived. 

Camilo Wong Moreno had made several attempts to "woo" the young Jezebel Damone in the few hours they had spent together at Josie Garcia's birthday party. Despite his admirable attempts, what truly won her over was when he worked up the courage to kiss her. It was one of the goofiest yet most tender experiences Jezebel has ever had, even to this day. Camilo was her first, and the old saying has still rung true after all these years: _you never forget your first._


End file.
